


Wyrmgeld

by Problem_Seeker



Series: Book's Adventures in Elsewhere [3]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Dismemberment, Gen, Some Mention of Violence, implied sexual content between nonhumans, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-09 15:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12279066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Problem_Seeker/pseuds/Problem_Seeker
Summary: Pages, the Wyrm beneath the Old English Building has been guarding her hoard for a long time. But what brought her down to the Gentry's Court to wage war? And why doesn't she leave now that her enemies are vanquished? What secrets does the Elsewhere Wyrm hold in her ancient self?Book is about to find out.





	Wyrmgeld

### 

**Wyrmgeld**

_The following is the account of Pages — the Wyrm of Elsewhere University — of her life to this point. Transcribed verbatim by Book, Professor of English at Elsewhere University, in the winter of her first teaching year._

***

She was not remarkable at her birth.

You would not, in those early days, have been able to distinguish her from her hatchmates by sight, nor did she have a name you could call. It is not the way of Wyrms to grow attached to their young, for many die in their first year, and still more die in the years beyond that. So parents do not give their children names, and they do not love them too fiercely at first. But if a Wyrmling survives to its fifth year, it has earned the right to name itself, and its parents allow a little love to creep into their hearts.

This Wyrmling was no faster, or stronger, or larger than the others. But she had a keen mind and good instincts, so she lived when many of her siblings did not. She knew how to hide from predators, and to be quick to pounce on the food her parents brought. She grew stronger and cleverer and quicker until she reached her fifth hatchday and gave herself a name.

So this Wyrm lived while others did not, and grew strong while others weakened. And in time she left her parents — as all children must do eventually — and set off to find a territory of her own. Across all of Else she slithered, hiding when danger came too close, until she found a home that suited her.

It was a wide valley, full of game and caves and good clean water. There the Wyrm dwelled for many years, growing large and strong on the spoils of her new home. When intruders came and wished to claim her place for their own, she drove them off. For the first time in her life she was powerful and safe.

Centuries stretched by. Wyrms live so long they are nearly immortal — unless they are murdered — and this one enjoyed her youth. She explored her territory, ate her fill each day, and slept when she was tired. Eventually, though, a stirring within her said it was time to find a mate of her own, and to bring her own hatchlings into the world. She resisted at first, uneager for her innocent days to come to an end, but soon knew there could be no fighting her instincts.

So at night, when the stars blazed above her, she shouted her intentions into the air, calling for suitors.

Many answered. Wyrms mate for life — no idle decision, when one lives forever — and this Wyrm took her time choosing. Some she rejected outright for being too small or cowardly or sickly. Others she allowed to remain close so that she might question them further. For three decades, she thinned down her list of suitors, rejecting them for stupidity or ill manners or short tempers. Until finally, thirty-five years after her initial call, she selected her mate: a large, red Wyrm from the desert to the west.

And she loved him. Fires above, how she loved him.

She loved the way his scales shined in the moonlight. She loved the way he offered her each of his kills before he took any for himself. Loved the way he'd curl himself around her body on cold nights so that her blood wouldn't freeze. Loved how he praised her eyes and her teeth and her mind. His strong heart. His gentle touch. All that he was, all that they would become together, she loved.

Their first coupling was — no. No, those memories are not yours to have. Suffice to say it was satisfactory, and we will leave it at that.

In time, the Wyrm laid a clutch of eggs. Ten eggs, an impressive amount for a first laying. And though she knew she should not grow attached — for surely not all would survive to their fifth hatchday — she loved them fiercely. Her mate, too, was proud of their little brood, and their happiness only grew. The pair took turns guarding their nest, one hunting for food while the other curled protectively around the vulnerable eggs.

She would regret being the one out hunting that day.

Her time in the valley had made her complacent and dulled the sharpness of her mind. She was too used to a full belly, a happy heart, to worry about the danger that still lurked in the world. She had long since stopped scenting for enemies on the air. So when she heard her mate's scream on the wind, she froze in terror and delayed her journey back. Had she moved quicker...

When she reached the cave, her eggs were smashed and her mate lay dead. His attackers had cut the heart from his chest and broken the teeth from his mouth. Many of his scales were ripped away, as were the magnificent crest-spines the Wyrm had loved to rub against. He looked nothing like himself, and the Wyrm screamed in rage not only for his death, but for the desecration of his corpse.

She knew who had done this. The Fair Folk — Elves and Dwarves and Fairies and their ilk — would kill mighty beasts for their rituals of manhood. To kill a Wyrm such as her mate would have been a great victory for them. It was they who had stolen into her valley and killed her love. It was they who had smashed her eggs and destroyed her happiness. Their scent mingled with the blood and bile of her mate's corpse, but still she knew it.

Her heart called for vengeance — and it would not be appeased until her mate's killers suffered as she did. But she also knew that there was no chance of slithering into Fairy lands without being killed herself. Vengeance required that she lived to see his murderers destroyed; reality promised her nothing but death at their hands.

So she sank into a deep sadness. She remained in her cave next to the rotting remains of her mate and the smashed eggs of their children. She did not stir to eat, or drink, or to chase invaders from her home. Part of her wished to die so that she would join her family in the next world. But her angry heart would not allow surrender. When at last her mate's bones had turned to dust, the Wyrm rose from her cave and slithered out into the world again.

To seek her vengeance she would need power greater than what she possessed. So she set out for the tallest mountain in Else, to seek the Fire Drake and beg his favor.

You are surprised at this revelation? You assume that mortals are the only ones who must bargain for powers beyond themselves? No, bargains are currency in Else for a reason. There are things there older and stranger and stronger than even the oldest of the Gentry. Things that offer power and wealth beyond imagining, but at prices too terrible to bear. And for Dragons and Wyrms and Wyverns, the Fire Drake was the most powerful of all.

The journey to his mountain took years, the climbing of it more years still. But her hate and bloodlust kept her from despair, and she continued onward no matter the obstacles in her path. Where other creatures fell or surrendered or died, she pressed on. She would not be swayed from her decision, and when at last she reached the peak of the mountain, she was exhausted — but triumphant.

The Fire Drake was bigger than any Dragon she had ever seen before. When his wings spread wide they seemed to block out the sun. The heat of his breath crisped some of her scales. The furrows cut by his claws could have contained her body three times over. Everything about him radiated power and absolute authority. He was magnificent and terrifying, and she cowered beneath his gaze.

"Why have you come?" the Fire Drake demanded. "What business have you here on my mountain?"

"I come for revenge," the Wyrm said, voice quavering. "The Fair Folk have killed my mate and broken my children. I would make them suffer for their arrogance and cruelty."

"What has this to do with me?"

"O Great One, I am but a lowly Wyrm," she said. "My power is nothing compared to one such as you. I would bargain for that kind of power."

The Fire Drake rumbled deep and low. "Such power is not cheaply bought," he said.

"Whatever the price, I will pay it," the Wyrm said. "Anything."

His claws raked the earth. "Very well," he said. "First, you must bring me proof of your dedication. At the bottom of the mountain is a red stone. Bring it to me."

So the Wyrm slithered down the mountain she had spent years climbing. When she reached the base, she was dismayed to see dozens of red stones. How to recognize which stone he meant? How to select one to bring up? She agonized over her decision, eventually choosing one at random. Once again she made the long journey up the mountain, taking years to reach the summit again.

She dropped the stone at the Fire Drake's feet. "O Great One, I have brought you a red stone," she said.

He made a sound of disgust and flicked the stone away as if shooing a fly. "Have you not eyes? Can you not see that stone was not the one I meant? Begone! Either find me the proper stone, or leave my mountain."

So once again the Wyrm returned to the base of the mountain. Again she agonized over the red stones, and again she picked one at random, and again the Fire Drake rejected it.

She returned to the base a third time, and this time she was determined not to fail. She pored over every red stone, comparing their qualities against one another. With the same care she'd taken selecting her mate, she selected a red stone. It was the deepest red of all and burned as if it contained the hottest fires. She knew as soon as she saw it that the Fire Drake could have meant no other, and that she was a fool for thinking that any could have been its equal.

And if she thought of her mate in that moment, none would have blamed her for the burning tears that fell from her eyes.

She took that stone in her mouth, though it burned, and carried it up the mountain. This journey took her the longest yet, for she was careful to keep this stone from harm. When at last she reached the summit again, she laid the stone reverently at the Fire Drake's feet. When she turned her eyes up towards him, there was no fear or doubt in them.

The Fire Drake looked at her stone, then looked at her. "Tell me what your vengeance will accomplish," he said.

"O Great One," she said, "it will soothe the burning in my heart."

"Will it now?" The Fire Drake snorted. "You think your heart so easily pacified?"

The Wyrm had to admit that she didn't know. "But I can do nothing else," she said. "Whenever I close my eyes I see his mutilated body, the broken eggshells of my children. Perhaps revenging myself on the Fair Folk will do nothing. But I must try."

He considered her words for a long time, so long that she was certain he would refuse. "So be it," he said at last. "I will help you."

The Wyrm withheld her thanks. There was still a price to consider, and this she waited to hear.

"You are naught but a Wyrm," the Fire Drake said. "You have no wings to fly, or claws to cut. You have poison bile and sharp teeth, but those alone will not offer you enough strength to defeat your enemies. Should you try to attack the Fair Folk in their own lands, you will exhaust yourself long before you have avenged your family. You need greater strength."

"Yes. Tell me how to gain this strength."

"The stone you brought me. Swallow it."

The Wyrm did so without hesitation. It burned her mouth and her throat and did not cease burning even as it settled into her stomach. It was the only thing that hurt worse than the pain in her heart, and it was almost a relief to have a greater agony.

"In the lands of the Fair Folk, there is a Court," the Fire Drake said. "In it they hoard all the riches taken from mortals who were desperate to bargain. You will go to this Court and drive the Fair Folk away. They will be desperate to regain this property and will send warriors to kill you — doubtless some of these will be the ones who killed your mate. When you have killed the last of the warriors on the first day, you will be exhausted. The stone within you will allow you to shed your skin and become a new Wyrm — one stronger and more savage than yourself. And should you survive the next warriors they send, the same thing will happen again. And again. And again. On the seventh day you will return to your usual form."

"This is powerful magic," the Wyrm said. "I am grateful."

"This does not come without cost," the Fire Drake cautioned. "Your transformations will not end just because your family is avenged. Each day you will transform into another self, returning to your true shape only on the seventh day. And these other selves will not be you. They will be strong, yes, but they will not have your mind or your heart. If you encounter friends, you will not recognize them. If you have made promises of safety, you will break them. You will live a fractured existence the rest of your days, unable to be truly whole ever again."

At this the Wyrm laughed bitterly. "I am not whole now," she said. "I willingly pay this price."

The Fire Drake rumbled his consent. "So be it. The power is yours. May it grant you the peace you seek."

Pleased with her bargain, the Wyrm left the Fire Drake and his mountain, the stone burning a fire within her.

Though it had been years since she'd smelled her mate's killers, the Wyrm recognized the scent of Fair Folk on the wind. She followed the smell across Else, using all her cunning to avoid danger; it would not do to die before she had a chance to use the power her bargain had granted her. She tracked the Fair Folk to the entrance to the magnificent Court the Fire Drake had mentioned, setting herself in a quiet spot while she gathered information.

She saw they posted only two guards at the doorway. The Fair Ones who came to this Court were dressed all in finery, laughing and prepared for untold revels. They did not think danger would find them on their own ground. They were not prepared for war.

A familiar musk found its way to her nostrils and she froze. It was the scent of her mate, drifting towards her as if out of a dream. Her heart twisted and burned in her chest and she barely suppressed a wail. Had he somehow survived the attack and she had mistakenly kept vigil near the wrong dead Wyrm? Or had he risen, phoenix-like, from his grave to find her anew?

She saw the Elf then. Tall and handsome, with a haughty sneer and a cold laugh. And wearing a waistcoat made from the scales torn from a red Wyrm's corpse.

The rage took hold of her, and she attacked.

Her jaws bit through the guards at the doors. Others were swept aside by the strength of her tail. As she forced her way into their Court, the Wyrm reveled in the Fair Folks' screams. With their blood staining her teeth, she felt invincible.

By the time she came to their central room, they had mustered their warriors. Bedecked in armor and carrying their weapons, they would have been a fearsome sight to the Wyrm back in her valley. But with the memory of her mate's death fresh again in her mind, these Fair Folk held no horror for her. She roared and struck at them again and again, felling half a dozen with each snap of her jaws.

But the warriors kept coming and the Wyrm's strength flagged. Just as she thought she would finally fall beneath their blades, she felt a change come upon her. Her skin felt too small and confining for her now, as it did before her yearly molts. With a tearing sound, she broke free of her old skin and was no longer herself.

She would never be herself again.

The next six days were a blur. She was dimly aware of roaring and pain, of the smell of blood and the screams of Fair Folk, but only as a dreamer is aware of the world around her. If any begged for mercy, or attempted bargains, or offered her recompense, she did not know it. She knew only the rising of a new sun and the desire to kill anything before her.

When at last she returned to her true form, the bodies of her slain enemies lay around her — and the Court had been abandoned.

As she looked upon the bodies, she knew the old Fire Drake's words were true: revenge had brought no peace to her heart. Even as she looked upon the one who wore her love's skin like a garment, she felt nothing but a profound emptiness. She had split apart her soul for what? A week of bloody battles? The blood spilled had not resurrected her love, or placed her young back safely in their eggs, or returned her to her happy days in the valley. She couldn't even remember her victories. For nothing, she had fractured her mind and denied herself the chance of ever healing.

She gave some thought to returning to her valley and ultimately rejected it. No doubt there were other Wyrms living there now, with mates and hatchlings of their own. These Wyrms deserved the peace she did not have. She did not consider returning to the Fire Drake and asking him to undo what he had done for her; she had agreed to pay the price for this power and would have to live with the consequences. No, best she remain in the stolen Court, raging six days of the week and melancholic the seventh, and deny the Fair Folk access to the hoard.

The Wyrm had no use for riches. Gold and jewels and books and baubles brought her no delight. But she would not part with even one bit of it. It was, she thought, compensation for the loss of her mate and children. Repayment for lives cut off too soon. And any creature who dared attempt to steal from it would meet with a grisly end.

So time passed. At first the Fair Folk sent warriors and clever things to attempt to kill her and reclaim the hoard. Eventually, when enough of them died, they stopped coming. The Lost Court, like many pieces of Elsewhere, eventually bled through into the mortal realm, situating itself beneath a disused building. Fair Folk with incautious tongues mentioned a Fairy Hoard, and in time humans crept down into the Court to steal.

She remembered killing at least three humans herself; she suspected her other selves killed more. If they had items of value she added them to the hoard. Sometimes, when she had not been herself, she found things she could not recall seeing before — shelves and bins and all manner of storage containers — left almost like offerings. She could attach no scents to them, so their appearance was a mystery. Still, it helped break up the boredom of her days. If she was feeling particularly finicky, she could use her snout and teeth to organize her hoard.

But most days she could not summon the energy to care about organization, and left things where they lay. The books in the hoard were far more intriguing, after the first decade or two, and these she sometimes read to pass the time. But despite these little distractions, she spent most of her days asleep; there was nothing in the waking world she looked forward to.

Centuries after she'd first claimed the Lost Court for her own, she scented Fair Folk on the air. She was alert immediately, body tense and ready for a fight, but the creature who came to her threw itself down in supplication as soon as it saw her. It babbled honorifics at her until she growled at it, after which it fell into terrified silence. It died quickly, without the chance to scream.

The next emissary they sent was more prepared. This one approached her cautiously, but spoke with respect and did not waste her time. It said that the Gentry acknowledged that the Wyrm was holder of the Court and would make no attempts to challenge her. But they wished to negotiate a deal, and would offer her payment for her help.

Having grown bored with her endless existence and intrigued by the novelty the situation offered, the Wyrm agreed to hear the proposal. "Speak your terms," she said. "I am listening."

"There is a girl," the emissary said, "who is desired. We have stolen something she dearly needs, and we would ask you to hold it for us until she agrees to our deal."

The Wyrm was immediately suspicious. "Why not hold the item yourself?" she asked. "Why request my aid?"

"She has made a study of us and knows our ways," the emissary replied. "She is clever enough that were we to keep this item ourselves, there is a chance that she would manage to take it back through trickery. But the Wyrm of the Lost Court...that is a fearsome beast too powerful for her to challenge. She knows very little of you, aside from rumors, and would not be so foolish as to come here. She is cautious to the point of cowardice."

"And the payment for this service?"

The emissary showed the Wyrm a set of beautifully-fashioned prosthetic arms, forged by the finest Dwarven craftsmen. These arms would allow the Wyrm more mobility and would help alleviate some of her boredom. These they would give to her forever, if only she would keep the bundle of papers for them.

Keep a sheaf of papers in exchange for hands? Hands that would allow her to sort and scratch and lift? It was an easy choice. The Wyrm agreed, taking both the golden arms and a manuscript from the emissary. Pleased at the exchange, the emissary departed, doubtless proud of what it saw as a flawless victory. It did not count on the Wyrm being interested in reading the book, or on its author coming to retrieve it.

The Gentry were, perhaps, not as clever as they thought.

Because the author did come for her book. Stinking of fear and desperation, she was nonetheless polite to the Wyrm. She misquoted lines of one of the Wyrm's favorite books, but was clever enough to use the mistake as an opening to negotiation. The author spun words as effortlessly as breathing, and the Wyrm's curiosity was piqued. When the girl offered to bring new books in exchange for the return of the one she'd written, there was no reason not to consider the plan; after all, the emissary had not clarified how _long_ the Wyrm was to keep the book in trust, so it was no violation of her word to give the book back. After sealing a bargain for three books a week for a quarter of a century, the author left with her manuscript in her arms.

So the Wyrm had come out ahead in her bargains. Not only had she received the golden arms from the Gentry, but she had a personal book delivery service scheduled every week. Not bad for a day's work. Not bad at all.

The author and the Gentry, of course, had no idea just how fortunate they had been in their own bargains. They met the Wyrm on a Tuesday, in her truest form. Their attempts at bargaining would not have gone nearly so well if they'd come, say, the day before or the day after. Then there would be no books, no golden arms, and no victory for anyone.

There are other stories that could be told of the Wyrm. Perhaps someday there will be time and interest enough to justify it. The author, at the very least, thinks there will be.

But for now, I will leave you with a word of warning: This Court and its riches are mine, hard-won through sacrifice and heartbreak. Any who wishes to take it from me will meet their end, unless they are willing to suffer greater pains than I have endured. Do not stray into this place by accident or with intent. I will know.

And if you happen to ignore this warning? Pray you meet me on a Tuesday.

***

**Transcriber's note:** _After I left Pages, I did a little digging in the school Library for supplementary information. If you talk to the right "people" there, they'll share with you a centuries-old little rhyme about the Wyrm. The author of the poem, sadly, is unknown._

_Tuesday's Wyrm knows her own mind,_  
_Wednesday's Wyrm is unrefined,_  
_Thursday's Wyrm has razor claws,_  
_Friday's Wyrm heeds no Gentry laws,_  
_Saturday's Wyrm has wings to soar,_  
_Sunday's Wyrm delights in war,_  
_But beware the Wyrm you face Monday morn:_  
_She is pure monster, a creature of scorn._

_Whoever wrote the poem knew about Pages's shifting states and studied them enough to record them. (And apparently nothing bad happened on Tuesdays even then.) If the poem is to be believed, some days she has wings, or claws, or the ability to shrug off the rules of the Gentry. Without observation, I can't confirm if any of that is true._

_But if it is? Then the Wyrm is more dangerous than you've ever been told. Because she's not the same creature all the time. If you sneak down to her home and expect to find the creature I've come to call my friend, you might come face-to-face with something completely different. Something powered by grief and rage and time left to boil._

_Leave the Wyrm alone. Forget about the hoard and the Lost Court. Live your life in the sunshine and don't creep to her shadows._

_And don't say I didn't warn you._

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this piece, "Wyrmgeld" is taken and twisted from the Anglo-Saxon term "weregeld" (or, compensation for a man killed).
> 
> The Lost Court, and the hoard within, is the payment Pages has taken to settle her dispute with the Gentry. In theory, this compensation would stop further bloodshed.
> 
> But test that theory at your own risk.
> 
> I like the idea of the Wyrm being a different beast for everyone who encounters it. Book sees a terrifying but intelligent creature that loves reading and can become something of a friend. Thieves see a fearsome winged monster sleeping on a pile of gold for all of six seconds before their heads are snapped off. Explorers see a pair of eyes in the dark, watching them as they flee for their lives.
> 
> Because why should the Wyrm limit itself to one form or one personality? It should be able to become what it needs to be, much like the Gentry change form at will.
> 
> A few other people have written fantastic stories about the Wyrm (if you haven't checked the #wyrm tag on the Elsewhere University Tumblr, I highly recommend it). This one is my humble contribution.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
